At a Glance, I Simply Knew
by Afantasyshared
Summary: Sophia Peverell had a secret that only her family knew about. Now her family is dead. She was taught to hide it from the world, but somehow she just knew that Regulus Black could be trusted. When thrown into the midst of a war with a hidden power that could mean victory for either side, being calculating meant everything; especially when anyone could deem you too dangerous to live.
1. The Last Peverell

**Rated M for sexual content in later chapters as well as graphic violence. Hey, guys! Congratulations on deciding to join me throughout my first fan fiction! I must admit I've probably read over 200 stories by now (I know, I've become a bit of an addict), and I've wanted to try my hand at writing one for a while now. Before we get started, I'd like to inform you of a few things, and then I promise I won't stall the story much after.**

 **First of all, I am a grammar Nazi without a beta, so my updates may take a while as I don't want the story to be misread or hindered by grammatical or spelling errors. If you do find any errors, I implore you to point them out so I can attempt to correct them post haste and to the best of my abilities.**

 **Secondly, I do have a busy schedule outside of this story; I have a child, a chicken, four dogs and a husband all on top of joining the military, so please be patient. If you are not a patient person, I ask that you wait until the story is completed before beginning to read it.**

 **Lastly, seeing as this is being published on fanfiction, I do not feel the need to constantly remind you that I am not J. K. Rowling. I'll do it just this once. I do not own the rights to nor do I receive payment or take credit for J. K. Rowling's work or anyone else's.**

 **Let's begin with the story, shall we?**

Albus Dumbledore was deep in thought as he paced the headmaster's office on the 19th of July, 1976. He was gripping a letter that requested his attendance in a meeting of the Wizangamot the following weekend. Rereading the letter for the third time, he paused, yet again, on the line that read: _"in regards to the guardianship of Sophia Artemis Peverell."_

Albus, of course, knew of the last branch of the Peverell family name. They were descendants of the eldest Peverell brother, Antioch Peverell, the original owner of the elder wand. Having retreated to the United States a hundred years prior, the Peverell family became reclusive but remained exceedingly adept in the magical arts as proven throughout their generations. They built an enormous fortune on their numerous patented potions and spells, becoming one of the wealthiest families in the entire wizarding world. Prior to recent events, the last of the Peverell family consisted of Orontes Peverell, his wife Juliet, and their daughters – Sophia and Seraphina.

The elder wand (which was, at that precise moment, tucked away in the headmaster's own robes) was in fact taken from Antioch upon his untimely death; however, some Deathly Hallows enthusiasts were more skeptic of this fact. This skepticism is what led to the attack of last week, leaving young Sophia Peverell an orphan at age 15. Apparently, nineteen more insidious enthusiasts believed the wand had been passed down through the family and decided to ambush them at their summer home in the Cotswolds.

While the details of the attack were vague, it was reported that Orontes and his wife were killed only after taking out nine of the attackers. Then, "due to an extreme burst of unidentified magic... caused by major duress," from Sophia, the rest of the attackers dropped dead a mere minute after Seraphina was struck by the killing curse. Ministry officials were baffled as to how such a feat was accomplished; Albus was, as well. The amount of power necessary for such a grand defensive assault was beyond anything ever recorded before. All of the wands from the event were tested and no spell came close to explaining what had occurred on the 12th of July. In the short week following the event, word of Miss Peverell's ability became widespread. The media had dredged up anything they could on the girl. They found out she was a registered metamorphmagus, as well. Believed to one day surpass even Albus himself, she held all of Wizarding Europe's attention and intrigue.

Seeing as she was born in England, it was up to its ministry to determine her fate.

Albus had three days to figure out what to do.

He was sure that the meeting was going to play out in one of two ways: fearing the power she possesses, the Wizangamot would try as hard as they possibly could to charge her with something and send her to await trial in Azkaban, or, more likely, they would fight over which pureblood family would get the prestige of taking her in as their ward and which would have the privilege of having her married in later, all for the purpose of possessing her power in someway. _No doubt those decisions will be quickly settled by those who have the biggest pocketbook and nobility_ , thought Albus with an exhausted sigh. That was quite a concerning thought when one considered the recent climate. _With Voldemort having so many suspected supporters in the Wizangamot now, she won't have a chance in the world unless I do something._ He knew she didn't believe in pureblood supremacy; they simply didn't teach those sort of ideals in Wizarding America. Taking her on as a ward of Hogwarts would present an array of new issues. _I'd have to present it to the Board of Governers. That will take far too long. Even if it I could rush it, it's probable that they'll reject the proposal as unnecessary. No, that just won't do._ He would have to take her in as his own ward. She would be able to stay protected and monitored at Hogwarts without too much trouble. _Yes, thats what I'll do; I can owl Harold Minchum about it now and meet with her privately as early as tomorrow,_ he decided.

Walking over to the desk, he began formulate his plan. His inked quill was only a few centimeters away from the parchment when another obstical came to the forefront of his mind. A marraige arrangement would still be made. _Well there's simply no way of getting out of that without stalling the council for months, at least. They won't let me be her guardian at all if I dont allow at least one of the families in HIS pocket to draw up a contract. She's in the Malfoys' custody at the moment, unfortunately. All we can hope is that she picks up on their way of thinking and plays along with it for the time being._


	2. Dealing with Repercussions

Upon waking in St. Mungos, Sophia instantly knew she was in trouble.

" _Don't ever reveal how powerful you truly are,"_ her father had always said. He would tell her that people just weren't ready to accept that her "special gifts" existed. While she could be exceptional, brilliant, and could achieve great things, never _too_ much. He would always say that it was too dangerous – being the best. This was a family lesson taught early on in life; a vital one, especially in Sophia's case. _"You must always be aware of what you're doing, so as not to expose yourself. Let your magic grow. Hone it; expand it as much as you can, but never show how great it is. If you use it in front of others outwardly, fool them into thinking it's something less. Be cunning; after all, it does come naturally to you,"_ he would say as a smirk played on his lips.

She _had_ exposed herself, though, partly at least, and way more so than her father had advised her to. She lost control. Her family was dead. _If I had just figured out the right way to help and sooner, plucked up the courage sooner, they'd still be alive,_ she thought bitterly. _It's my fault they're gone.._

Fighting back a sob as the memory of the attack pounded its way back into her mind, Sophia kept her eyes closed in order take in her surroundings undetected. Right then was not the time to break. _Do not show weakness,_ she ordered herself desperately. While keeping her breathing as even as possible, she surveyed herself first. Her hair was dry but stuck to her face and scalp, most likely due to sweat. _My head hadn't hurt this bad when I hit the wall, had it? It feels like something's trying to drill it's way out of my skull,_ she thought achingly. She was lying on her stomach, draped in an open-backed hospital gown and sheet, and there was a distinct, itchy stiffness in her back that could only come from new skin growth. Intending to gauge what mask she should project in her current situation, she listened the commotion around her.

There were four people in the room; three of them all talking at once. It quickly became clear that they were arguing about what to do with her.

"Can all of you please move this conversation elsewhere? We haven't even deemed her fit to leave, yet!" exclaimed a voice to her right that she judged as being the only healer in the room.

Just then, a different, nasally voice laced with evident annoyance replied, "you've healed her injuries! She's not your responsibility anymore."

"She's not your responsibility either," retorted an American man whom Sophia recognized as Mr. Peterson – her family's solicitor and basically the only outside person to step foot in Peverell Manor. "She's a resident of the United States and will continue to reside there until she is of age and may choose otherwise."

"Now see here; this parchment proves she was born right here, in St. Mungos. I would think you'd know the law better than most in your line of work, Mr. Peterson. She's to stay here," stated another male voice in a condescending tone.

"Not to mention she needs to be questioned. She _is_ part of an investigation, you know," added the nasally voice.

"Barty, calm yourself. You're acting as if the girl is on trial. Mr. Peterson, I assure you Miss Peverell is in very capable hands. We will handle this as delicately as the situation calls for. She's actually got relatives here that she's to stay with until more permanent arrangements can be made."

"Oh? And who might that be? I've been the family's solicitor for seventeen years now and I haven't heard of any relatives still alive today," fired Mr. Peterson at the same time that tell tale clicks of the door and footfalls announced the entrance of an additional person in the room.

Quiet descended, and it was then that the newcomer spoke up in a regal, icy voice. "I believe that would be me; Abraxas Malfoy. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Sophia quickly tuned out the conversation to reflect upon the information she had gathered. Oddly enough, it wasn't the actual conversation that had disturbed her; that had actually gone much better than she had expected. What had brought her near the edge of panic, however, was what she registered beneath the men's words – what she had retrieved from the men's thoughts.

Growing up as a natural-born legilimens with the grandest skill set the world had yet to know, Sophia had the ability to register people's surface thoughts and motives without even making eye contact. It had taken the better part of her childhood years to learn how to focus this particular skill – to be able to turn it off and on at will, as well as direct it to specific people in close proximity to her.

This is how she discovered that the healer who seemingly stood up for her out of consideration actually _should_ have deemed her fit to leave upon waking. Instead, he had delayed it in hopes of performing private tests on her to decipher exactly what hidden magic she possessed as well as metamorphmagus tests that _had_ to have been unpermitted. While this certainly caused Sophia to feel indignant, she knew it would be easy enough to avoid his wild ideas. She was no one's lab rat!

The man with the nasally voice – the man she heard was named Barty – sounded like some sort of law enforcement personnel and had an array of different theories involving the attack. The most prominent of these theories was that Sophia had somehow orchestrated the event in order to gain an early inheritance and then turned on her accomplices so she wouldn't have to share it. Even though all of his ideas were equally preposterous, he was planning to question her under veritaserum, which would no doubt lead to her revealing much more than she intended. Luckily, Sophia had a way around that; _I just have to go back to the summer house for some things_.

At the notion of going back, pain and anxiety flooded through her as though ice water was entering her bloodstream. _Compartmentalize_ , she reminded herself. _Survival first; feelings later._

Mr. Peterson was really just worried about what it would mean for his contract if Sophia were to stay in Wizarding Britain. He felt a small amount of sympathy for her, but he was more concerned with taking care of his own children, and the Peverell family had always been his biggest client. The man who showed Mr. Peterson the proof of Sophia's birthplace seemed to be a high up ministry official of some sort, possibly even the minister. Luckily, he didn't believe that she was a threat of any sort. Apparently Mr. Peterson stated that the only living person Sophia knew now was himself, giving him some sort of say over her future, and demanded to speak with this man when everyone else told him she'd be staying in Britain.

While believing his presence here was a waste of valuable time, the ministry official wanted to consult with Albus Dumbledore on the matter of her safety and future living arrangement as soon as possible. _Dumbledore is renowned for his brilliance even in the States,_ Sophia marveled. _Isn't he the headmaster of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry now?_

None of the men's thoughts were comforting, but they were nothing compared to the insidious calculation that was Abraxas Malfoy's conscious thoughts.

Yes, it was true; they were related. Sofia recalled that her grandmother's maiden name had been Malfoy; however, this man had yet to recognize them as family in any way except name. According to his surface thoughts, she gathered that he had been ordered by someone to take her in under the guise of familial hospitality. In truth, he was meant to judge whether Sophia was friend or foe – whether she should live or die, he _did_ seem to hope that she could live though. _If she_ is _a blood traitor,_ he had thought as he walked into the room, _it'll be a waste of potential and the last of a noble family line to have her killed. Perhaps I can persuade the Dark Lord to let me teach her our ways if that's the case. She is still young and impressionable, after all_.

She had learned about blood prejudice but, due to being so sheltered, had never seen it first-hand. She knew that "blood traitor" was a slur used to identify a pureblood that saw non-pureblooded people as equals. By all rights, she _was_ a blood traitor; Abraxis Malfoy would never know that, though. Knowing (by way of worldly news) that there was a dark group evading capture in Wizarding Britain, she assumed the leader of that group was who Mr. Malfoy's "Dark Lord" was, and she felt she would be most fortunate if she never had to meet him.

 _Okay, Sophia, we've got a bit of a show to put on now,_ she mentally prepared herself. _I need to seem physically sound to stay away from the crazed healer, but not so unscathed that it seems as though I was in on the attack, and I have to pretend to hate all non-purebloods and charm Malfoy into escorting me to the summer house without arousing suspicion. Best to act as though I forgot most of the attack, as well; I did have a concussion and I suffered a traumatic experience, so it should be feasible. Less questions that way. One confused, emotionally upheaved, bigoted pureblood heiress coming up. If this doesn't work, I'll just have to coax their minds a bit.._

She didn't need to fake the groan that escaped her throat when she finally opened her eyes.

"Miss Peverell," came the healer's voice. "Miss Peverell, can you hear me?"

She squinted her eyes and blinked a few times before replying, "yes." Her voice came out as a hoarse whisper. _How long have I been out?_

"Good. Now I'm just going to ask you a few questions and I want you to answer them to the best of your ability; do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Can you state your full name for me, please?"

"Sophia Artemis Peverell."

"Good. And your birth date?"

"April 12, 1961"

"Excellent. Do you think you can sit up?"

Tentatively, so as not to drop the sheet from around her back or rip open her wounds, she rolled over in the bed and sat upright. Having pasted on a shocked and confused expression, she finally got a view of the occupants of the room. Her healer, a man in his mid-twenties, had a greedy look in his eyes. Trying find a reason to ask for a new healer, she discovered that he was muggleborn and hadn't bothered peering into his mind any further. She damn sure wasn't sticking around long enough for him to come up with a reason for her to stay. Using the prejudice would work and earn her favor with Mr. Malfoy as well.

Mr. Peterson, a portly man with graying hair, was standing next to a man who looked exactly how Sophia imagined a serial killer to appear. With sharp, almost black eyes and the dullest brown hair she'd ever seen, Barty Crouch Sr. was impeccably manicured right down to the perfectly parallel hairs of his mustache. Back to the door, standing authoritatively was Howard Minchum, and Sophia was right, he _was_ the Minister of Magic.

When she looked at Abraxas Malfoy, with his white blonde hair, steel blue eyes, and harsh features, she decided it was time to speak. She let tears cloud her own eyes and become trapped in her long lashes as she furrowed her brows further and said, "What's happened?"

In accordance with everyone's seemingly shocked expressions, the healer asked, "what's the last thing you remember, Miss Peverell?"

"People broke through our wards, my father sent us upstairs… Where's my sister? Are my parents okay?"

They were all looking at her then, their surface thoughts and faces showing different emotions ranging from pity to discomfort to disbelief; some, like the healer's, even guilt. When they informed her of the events, she proceeded to call them liars and threw all of her anger and self loathing – all of the disparity she truly felt – into the act. She could almost believe it herself for a moment, and she wanted with everything in her for her act to be true – for the memory of that night to be gone; to believe them all liars. After unleashing some true emotions it took Sophia a while to reign them back in, and when she did, she simply felt numb. She couldn't even feel relief when she tuned back in to each of their minds and discovered that they all bought it.

An hour later, after being informed that she had been unconscious for three days and receiving many scans from her new, "more respectable" healer, Sophia was following Mr. Malfoy to floo to the Ministry of Magic and retrieve her wand.

She had done an excellent job of maintaining her mask of a respectable heiress in mourning (distant and cold, with an underlying fragility) and was keeping it firmly in place as they walked. On the inside, her emotions weren't that far off from the mask; she was in a constant dance between tainted remembrance of the life she just lost and survival mode. She felt vulnerable, for the threat to her person had not passed but merely changed after a short reprieve of unconsciousness. There were other factors to contend to now, and she felt bare to them without her wand. Sophia was biting at the bit to get it back. She could still remember with perfect clarity the day her mother had brought her and Seraphina to purchase the wand, which she named Vita. It was one of the few memories she could still reflect upon without the bite of regret and guilt.

" _Your eldest is in need of a wand, I'm guessing," spoke an aged witch by the name of Shikoba Wolfe. She had salt and pepper hair which was pinned back in a bun and lines all over her caramel-colored face expressing years of happiness. Sitting in a rocking chair, carving the final details of a long applewood wand, she looked like the epitome of warmth. Miss Wolfe's demeanor, combined with the inviting scent of all the different wands – new and old – made her rather renowned wand shop feel quaint and cozy._

 _Sophia noticed that the wandmaker was mentally speaking with the applewood wand and realized that people in Miss Wolfe's profession must have an extra sense of some sort. Not even Sophia, who had finely tuned her receptivity of surface thoughts a year prior, could feel a conscious presence from the wand._

" _Yeah and we got a permit for the wand to perform magic outside of the normal schools, too. Mommy, can I get my wand today? It's not fair that Sophie gets to start learning first!" Sophia rolled her eyes at her sister's antics. Seraphina had been asking the same question along with the same argument since they woke up that morning._

 _Juliet Peverell sent a menacing look at her youngest daughter. "I've told you before that you've still got two more years to wait for your wand. Even if you_ could _get it this year, I'd be hesitant to allow it after the joy ride you went for yesterday!"_

 _The_ _prior_ _evening, a_ _fter taking a few laps on the broom she stole from their father's study, Seraphina had been in the middle of trying to convince Sophia to take a turn when they were caught. Sophia had attempted to take some of the blame, but their mother knew exactly which of them was reckless enough to fly before being taught properly._

 _Sophia waited for her mother to turn back to Miss Wolfe before whispering quietly, "don't worry, Sera, I'll teach you a lot of what I learn, and you can practice with sticks. That way, when you get your own wand, you'll catch up to me in no time at all!" Seraphina looked slightly mollified at that statement as the adults finished speaking._

 _Miss Wolfe set the applewood wand on a table beside her and stood from her rocking chair with the aid of her wooden cane, which looked very much like a larger version of the wand sticking out of her pocket. After she finished taking Sophia's measurements she gave a kind smile. "Let's get behind the counter and see what we can find. I want you to close your eyes and tell me if you can feel a particular pull in direction. Don't feel discouraged if you can't; not many people do, but it'll speed up the search for your wand if you can. If you feel the pull, I want you to guide me to the shelf you think it's coming from."_

 _Sophia did as instructed and almost immediately felt as though she had once lost something very important, perhaps even vital. Upon opening her eyes, she felt like running toward the area where she simply knew the item lay waiting. What stopped her haste was the elderly woman at her side who seemed to recognize Sophia's jerky movements with ever increasing excitement._

" _The pull must have been very strong. Well go on, lead the way," Miss Wolfe said in encouragement, and together they went. The two were all the way in the back left corner of the store when Sophia came to a sudden halt. She pointed to a shelf that was nearly empty. In fact, there was only one box left, and it didn't look like any of the other wand boxes she'd seen upon entering the shop._

 _Miss Wolfe was dumbfounded. "Are you sure it's this one?" At Sophia's nod, the wandmaker set her cane aside, reach out and gently – almost reverently – pulled the box down from the shelf. Appearing to be composed of clay and petrified wood, the box was old and covered in carved symbols that Sophia couldn't understand, but she recognized the markings as being Native American. "Just to make sure," Miss Wolfe said as she opened the box to reveal the wand that lay inside. She pulled it out just as carefully as she had the box and handed it to the young witch beside her._

 _As soon as Sophia's fingers curled around the base of the wand, she felt as though she was coming home after a long trip. The sensation was warm and familiar. Bringing the wand up above her head, Sophia flicked her wrist. Tiny white flares flew from the tip of the wand and swirled around in mid air before meeting with each other and creating a bloom of sparks over her like a firework._

" _I never thought I'd live to see this," said Miss Wolfe in an awed voice. "Of course, I knew the wand was capable but I never thought it would deem anyone fit to yield it. What you are holding is the rarest wand I've ever seen." At Sophia's questioning gaze, the witch continued, "I didn't make it. No. In fact, this was made before I was even born. The tribe that I am from had a wandmaker, many generations prior to my birth, who experimented in using_ two _magical properties in a wand instead of one; meaning not just the core, but the wood, as well. This was his only success; Whomping Willow, with a Hippogriff feather core. It's potential in all fields of magic is record breaking, but to anyone who doesn't practice wandlore, it might as well have been a pretty looking stick until now. I suppose it's too proud to work for just anyone. This is the first time it has ever produced magic." She then explained that other wands would work for everyone to some extent or another; even if they weren't a suitable match for the caster, they would still function. Sophia was listening avidly about the wonder surrounding her new wand and realized that, in perhaps the most important way, this wand was a life. It could feel, choose, and impress feelings in others, or, at least, in her. Feeling oddly protective and grateful to the wand for choosing her, she felt a name come to the forefront of her mind:_ Vita.

Sophia was dragged from the memory by the sound of Mr. Malfoy's voice, inquiring about her wand to a homely-looking witch at Wand Registry. "I'm here to retrieve the wand of Miss Sophia Peverell."

The witch addressed immediately began falling over herself to comply with this. Obviously the high-profile status of the blond wizard, combined with the powerful mystery surrounding Sophia and the attack, had the clerk in an upheaval of sorts as she pulled Vita from her desk and squeaked out, "Y-yes Mister Malfoy. This seems to match the description on the permit we received from the States, o-only –

"That is my wand."

The woman seemed to tremble a bit as she handed it over. "Are you sure, Miss? I-if it weren't for the description I wouldn't have even kept it." At Sophia's incredulous expression, she continued, "I'm so sorry, but I believe it's a replica, not a real wand."

Having prepared for something such as this, Sophia planned to use it to her advantage. She raised her chin and took on a haughty tone as she replied. "What are you, an invalid? Of course it's a _real_ wand." To prove her point, she raised the loving companion and pointed it at the woman's desk.

The employee looked terrified for a moment before one of the desk drawers opened and three more wands came out to land in Sophia's outstretched hand in response to a nonverbal summons.

"I'm collecting my family's wands as well. They _are_ my due and I feel it's only right to keep them in the hands of someone I feel is _competent,_ " she stated with a sneer to the clerk before moving her gaze to address her new handler and presenting the wands to him. "Mister Malfoy, would be so kind as to take care of these for me."

Sophia decided in that moment to heighten the advantageous manipulation of the act and assure no harm befell the tokens of her family: mentally she implanted a sense of paternal familiarity in Abraxas Malfoy. She felt dirty for doing it; she had never used her powers to fabricate someone's emotions before and had never intended to until that day. Necessity overruled morality at that point though. As they left she could sense him mentally preening at being entrusted with something so valuable to Sophia and vowing to give her guidance and protection in every manner he could. She had to block his thoughts at that point, or she might have done something reckless like scream at him for feeling only what she made him feel, or, even worse, she might have laughed at him for it. _What is wrong with me?_


	3. The Art of Regulus

"Regulus Acturus Black, there is something I would like to know. Now. You've skillfully avoided mentioning it in your letters while at school; you've somehow managed to slither around or redirect the matter in the weeks you've been home, and it stops here."

Regulus had never been immune to the fact that Walburga Black's voice was grating at the best of times. He knew it was about as pleasant and soothing as a squawking crow. Unfortunately, he also knew the squawking was about to turn into a screech which could rival that of a banshee. _Bloody hell_ , he thought, but – in a tone that expressed only polite aloofness – replied aloud, "Yes, Mother?"

"Who dared put the heir to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black in the hospital wing? And don't tell me it was a quidditch accident! You don't end up with your head transfigured because of quidditch!"

 _This is exactly why I didn't tell Madame Pomfrey or anyone else what happened,_ Regulus thought bitterly. _Of course Mother would insist to be notified whenever I visit the hospital wing. I should have just suffered the humiliation and sought Severus to help put me right._

"It was just one of those wretched Gryffindors," he answered in a disinterested manner, privately hoping beyond hope that the conversation would end there.

"I want a name, Regulus," she responded through gritted teeth. "Which bloodtraiter managed to accost you, hmm? Surely it wasn't a _mudblood_ that could have bested you..?"

"Of course not, Mother."

With a deranged fury residing in her eyes, Walburga stared at her son, silently demanding an answer. Regulus felt a mixture of exasperation and trepidation. _Surely she must know by now who cursed me,_ and for not the first time in his life, the thought that his mother was barking mad ran through his mind. He was backed into a corner. If he told her a lie, she would simply find out the truth through whatever Gryffindor she tried to seek retribution from. If he told her the true name of his offender, which she likely already knew, he would be subjected to immediate, harsh, and unjust discipline. Feeling dejected and bracing himself for what was to come, he spoke.

"It was Sirius Black."

Regulus, upon uttering his brother's name, watched Walburga's face get impossibly red. It reminded him of when a poorly-tended cauldron cherries right before it explodes. Then, as expected, the banshee screech burst forth.

"HOW DARE YOU SPEAK THAT NAME IN THIS HOUSE! HE IS DEAD TO US! HOW DARE YOU SHOW SUCH INSOLENCE YOU-"

Retreating to the depths of his mind, Regulus stared at the bottom of the staircase and waited for his punishment to be over – for the screeching to die down and the spells to cease their assault on his body.

After what felt like an eternity, Regulus dragged his aching legs up each step and finally into the seclusion of his room. He cursed every part of his life as he went – every part except one.

He cursed his mother for being the raving lunatic she was. He cursed his father for never interfering during the worst of her episodes. He cursed his body for not wanting to cooperate after the strain it was just put through. He cursed his brother for getting himself blasted off the family tree last Christmas, and he cursed the event that brought him to his latest distress.

Simon Hughes, a mudblood Hufflepuff in his year had been making lewd advances to a Ravenclaw fifth year, Samantha Selwyn, who was obviously intended. She had been wearing a broach bearing the Burke family crest proudly on her robes for months, indicating that she had clearly been promised to Delfious Burke, a seventh year Slytherin. Regulus was in the middle of telling the boy that mudbloods like him had no business being in the Wizarding World when Sirius had walked up behind him and stated that if he was going to act like an arse, he should at least look the part. That is how Regulus had found himself in the hospital wing with a donkey's head in place of his own.

 _Why can't Sirius understand that mudbloods hold no place among us? Can't he see that they disregard our traditions and pose a threat to the sanctity of our world? Can't he see that when the Dark Lord takes over, he will be ridiculed and ostracized for being so blind?_

Regulus cursed it all again as he collapsed on his bed. In fact the only thing he didn't curse was the strange, magnificent secret that had showed up in most of his dreams ever since he could remember. He begged the Fates he would see her again tonight.

She was his solace in the complicated life he was born into, and if she was real, which he was most certain she was, he knew he was her solace, as well. A year ago Regulus had finally divulged to her that he had come to love her as much more than a friend, and proceeded to kiss her over and over with wishes of a real future in between. He remembered that her kiss felt like salvation and torture all in one, making him crave her actual lips more than ever.

Remembrance. That was the strange part – the part that made them both sure the other was real. There were many things that Regulus could remember from his dream love, as well as many he could not. They were specific things, things that would allow them to find each other – names, locations, regional animals and plants – which eluded them. They each knew they spoke of it; Regulus remembered one dream where they both only spoke the other's name over and over in hopes of recalling when they awoke, but while they could remember doing just that, neither could remember what name each spoke.

During wakefulness, he merely referred to her as _Art_ in his mind ever since he was very young and decided to think up a name for her. He had no idea if it was actually part of her name, but he vaguely remembered one dream where they painted soldiers with wands and made them come to life and fight each other in epic battles; thus – _Art._

Art had told Regulus once that she even tried to pull a memory of his face in order to show her sister, who was especially adept at painting and enchanting magical portraits. The idea was that the portrait could glean the information she had lost; as soon as Art tried to bring forth the memory for that purpose, however, she couldn't even remember what he looked like. She confessed that, after lying in despair for hours at not being able to recall his face and promising to herself that she would never attempt to mess with the Fates' plan again, she was finally able to bring his features to the forefront of her mind. That was when they both agreed that it was the Fates that brought them together in sleep. The Fates would allow them to truly meet one day. _We need only wait._ With that thought, Regulus was finally able to drift off.

The best part about their dream connection was that every time they entered their dreams, they remembered everything they had forgotten. That is why, when Regulus came upon his love he called out, "Sophia!"

She stood at the fallen elder tree where the two usually met, looking out at the body of water in front of them – her elegant, ancient looking robes swaying in the breeze. When they were ten, he brought up the concern that perhaps they were from different times and were never actually destined to meet in this life. She then explained that she was, in fact, born in 1961 just as he was. Her family line had simply remained secluded for many years, only truly allowing outsiders in when marriage contracts had been finalized and magically sealed. For this reason, everyday attire was one of a few things in her family that had progressed more slowly than the rest of the world. She elaborated that they did have outfits to wear on the rare occasion that they did venture into public – her father did that quite a bit – and her sister actually preferred the style, but it had always made Sophia feel too exposed.

She twisted around to greet him, silver hair flaring out as she went, looking every bit the angel she was. When his eyes met hers, his excited smile fell instantly. Anguish tore at his gut and he knew that something was terribly wrong. She had been crying, and her eyes shown with what Regulus thought was a mixture of despair, fear, and desperation. Before he could utter a single inquiry, she was in his arms, her face buried in his chest.

"Regulus. Reggie, they're dead. All of them… They're dead."

 _Her family._ He knew that they were the only people she had emotional connections to aside from him and could only hold her as she fell apart. His mind almost burst with questions as he did. _How? Why? Is she hurt somewhere? Surely, if that were so, she would alert me. She's supposed to be at the Peverell summer home, here, in England. Where is she now?_ Selfishly he wondered, _is she closer to me than she's ever been?_ He had allow her time to grieve, though. He knew that wherever she was now, she would not have someone else to depend on in this capacity while awake; if this small gesture was all he could offer her, he would. Still, her sobs were tearing at him, and he silently begged her to speak.

Once she calmed down her breathing, and the only outward signs of distress were the tears still flowing from her exhausted eyes, she still did not speak. Regulus realized that distracting her from the topic for a moment might not vanish her pain, but it could lighten it for a while and make handling her situation easier.

"When I was five, I was exploring this very forest and trying to find the best tree to climb. I knew I was in a dream from the beginning, because, well, I was never allowed to do something as uncivilized as to roam a forest simply for fun. Anyway, I was looking for the tree, when I registered a movement from the corner of my eye. I looked over and saw a girl – around my age at the time – walking parallel to me about three meters away and staring up at the treetops ahead of her. She was… captivating." At this pronouncement, he heard Sophia scoff and inwardly praised himself for his accomplished goal. "Her silken hair was this mystical assortment of pink, purple, blue and white – hair which would make any other little girl die from sheer envy. In her many layered, lacy robes, she looked like nothing short of a perfectly carved porcelain doll, animated to be the _perfect_ little girl. Yes, even then, when young boys such as myself took little to no notice of girls, I thought her beautiful."

"Exaggerating things a bit, aren't you?"

Regulus ignored her in favor of continuing the tale. "I was determining the best way to capture her attention and interest when she stopped. Her gaze fell to meet mine and she smiled, but before I could speak, she turned and began to run away from me." Lacing his hand with hers, he paused for a moment to peer down at her and see the slight smile curving her full lips. "At first, I interpreted her abrupt departure as bashfulness. Then I noticed flowers sprouting up in place of her footprints and realized she was leaving a trail for me. I followed the trail even after I lost sight of the one making it. The flowered trail eventually ended at the base of a tree. I was scanning the area for the girl when I heard a melodic laugh from above and looked up. There you were, sitting on a branch, in the very best climbing-tree. The light had shown through the trees to lay upon your skin, highlighting your expression. You had this triumphant look on your face, and you –"

She interrupted to finish for him, "and I said, 'once you catch up, we'll see who can make it to the top first,' and then I won by an extreme margin."

"Now who's exaggerating? It was most definitely a tie!"

They laughed at that and she looked at him in bemusement. "Why?"

He knew exactly what she was referring to and readily replied, "because sometimes I need a good memory that isn't overshadowed by darkness. It keeps me composed and reminds me that things aren't always so dreary." He gently brushed his lips against her forehead and brought his free hand up to wipe away the remnants of her tears. "I thought you could use one, so I gave you one of my favorites."

She looked solemn then, and turned her gaze toward the lake at the forest's edge. "Do you remember telling me about the Dark Lord?"

"Of course. He's working to save magical world – to bring back the Old Magics and eradicate the threat of muggles and mudbloods. He's extremely powerful. I admit that some of the things he's had to do to muggles are horribly gruesome, but it's an understandable move, a necessary evil to ensure his ideas be taken seriously and show him to be a strong leader." He paused for a moment, bewildered by her askance. "But as I recall, you seemed quite adamant in not wanting to discuss politics. Why? He isn't responsible for - for what happened, is he?"

She appeared to be steeling herself for her reply before regarding him once more. Her stare carried many things, the weight of which both terrified and entranced him. Gone was the desperation and fear he saw earlier. The despair was still present, but added to it was resolve. Whatever she was going to reveal to him – it was absolute for her, regardless of his thoughts.

Being more than just a pretty face, Regulus had already concluded that his wonderful, brilliant Sophia was a blood traitor. It couldn't be helped. _She was sheltered, not to mention she's from the States, where MACUSA is so strict about muggle/magical interaction, it's like a whole different world._ However, he wasn't worried; he knew that whoever was right and knew best would convince the other to be in harmony with his… or her views. It wasn't that he couldn't see her being right. He just couldn't see himself being wrong.

With her next words, he would learn just a sample of how wrong he could be.


End file.
